


All This and Heaven Too

by purplekitte



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, I don't even have tags that can properly warn for this fic, Incest, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think no one does it? Takes what is offered so very willingly? (Primarchs/Astartes slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ultramarines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a 'verse where a certain amount of Greek pederasty is taken for granted as part of the mentor-protege relationship on Macragge. Spoilers for _Know No Fear_. And thanks to absurdfact for the first line, that I stole.

‘I have a solid theoretical, but no actual practical,’ Aeonid Thiel discovered he had said when the words reached his ears.

The mark of Calth clicked 52.23.14, 52.23.15, and he couldn’t muster up words to properly express the honour of Guilliman taking a person interest in mentoring him. It was him, so he’d just end up putting his foot in his mouth as usual anyway. Thiel was grateful, but he was so very tired that he could hardly feel his emotions, let alone untangle them from the mess of old combat hormones and sickness at the pit of his stomach.

There were things to get done. He would do them. It was very, very simple to think of nothing else when there were things to do.

Maybe he was completely wrong in his suppositions, after all he didn’t exactly have first-hand experience on how this usually went, but he thought he understood what Guilliman was using him for. His primarch too wanted to focus on something else, because all the galaxy was burning and he couldn’t do anything about most of it or about things that had already happened or--no, too much thinking. Guilliman was trying to regain his composure, trying to drain the heat from his blood when he was burning with anger and hatred, so he could rest and recuperate and be in optimal condition to carry on.

Thiel could feel abrasive scabs marring Guilliman’s body and rough, chapped skin from void exposure. He wasn’t sure what to say. He doubted there were any words that could make anything better, but he was just Foot-in-Mouth Guy, what did he know? Everything he could think of was definitely the wrong thing to say. (We love you. We still trust you. We are still with you. We are in the right. We will triumph in the end.)

He didn’t know if he could speak better with his body, but he hoped so. He could tell he was clumsy, awkward. He had figured every human ancestor he had ever had couldn’t be completely wrong about the appeals of sex, but he’d been off by orders of magnitude about how good Guilliman’s touch would feel. Calth hadn’t broken him and this wouldn’t either, but it brought everything to the surface in a way so good it hurt like hell.

Guilliman’s hands played over him masterfully, showing him exactly what to do. He wanted to hold Guilliman, he thought, to give back to him some of the comfort he was getting, but that was an unreasonable image and his arms would hardly fit around his primarch’s broad chest. Still he arched up against him, trying to learn quickly, to give all the friction he could as Guilliman rubbed hard and hot and huge between his thighs.

Thiel probably wouldn’t have been able to see the slight smile, but he could feel it against his lips. ‘Thank you.’


	2. Night Lords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Curze/Sevatar/Corax I tried to write because someone mentioned it on tumblr didn't work out, but I cannibalised the parts that did into this. Days between thinking "That's so wrong, how could you ship that" and starting to write it myself: one, maybe two. And that's why I ended up writing this entire fic.

It was always fast and dirty and painful and Sevatar was never going to admit that he liked it more than he liked breathing.

Obviously a fortunate thing with Curze’s cock filling his mouth and his hands pressing in on his neck. Sevatar closed his lips around him and sucked and got more bruises inside his throat and out for his efforts.

‘My little whore,’ his primarch cooed affectionately. ‘You love to be on your knees for me. Like a blind kitten groping for its mother’s teat to suckle.’

If he’d been able to get a word in, Sevatar would have said something about how he’d better be getting paid for his services or he was doing worse than he had back on Nostromo. It was also true, true, true. His own cock was hard and leaking and it would have taken constant effort to not hump Curze’s leg, if he’d been trying to stop himself. He was curious what would happen if Curze ever tried to get him to beg for it. Which would run out first: his sarcasm or Curze’s patience? He didn’t know, except that yeah, he really, really wanted it.

Just for that, Sevatar pulled back, wet strings of spit still between them, and teased. He licked and sucked at little patches of skin, wrapped both hands around the base of his shaft and pumped slowly, rubbed his whole cheek again his balls.

Curze chuckled and lifted him by a handful of hair into a brutal kiss, biting his lips, his tongue, then dropping him abruptly and forcing his jaw open again.

The sad thing was, Curze probably _didn’t_ know any other way to have sex and would be better off with someone who could tenderly make love to him, but Sev wasn’t that man and had never in his life run into a situation where that kind of flowery euphemism for fucking might apply either.

Curze held his head in place and jerked his hips in sharp spasms, in stabbing thrusts. His drawn, skull-like face was twisted in a contradictory mixture of violent glee and sick fondness. Sevatar twitched and choked instinctively with pain but couldn’t have pulled away even if he’d wanted to as his primarch finished fucking his throat raw and came in his mouth.


	3. Space Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played around with this one for a while and kept throwing all the prose out, then I switched POV to fit this series and suddenly I got it. Warnings for discussion of bestiality, in the context of it proceeding to not happen.

They said ‘Russ is an animal’ and ‘Russ fucks his wolves’. There was always a _they_ to attribute gossip to when it got a little too common, a little too insidious, things everyone repeated but no one really believed--or would admit they did.

Bulveye knocked once on Leman’s door and entered without permission. The day a man couldn’t speak his mind to his jarl would be the day after the last one.

‘Dýrhildr?’ he asked, more to express sympathy than to request information. Anyone with a nose could smell that Dýrhildr was in heat. To most of them this was immediately obvious but as unimportant as what the weather might be like back on distant Fenris.

‘Yes,’ Leman said shortly, not removing his head from the pillow it was stuffed under.

‘You need to get laid.’

‘I have been,’ his jarl snapped back. There were the other rumours of course, ‘Russ has been cutting a swatch through the thralls again’, but that was a regular event that rarely had any deep meaning. The younger ones were very bad at putting clues together.

Bulveye had been a married man with sons and daughters before the Emperor had found Fenris. He knew Leman better than that. He knew that whatever people liked to say, Leman had iron self-control, even in the throes of passion. He was careful. His primarch brothers might kill mortals or Astartes in a flare of temper or by accident, but the Wolf King would never, never hurt anyone except on purpose.

Geri thumped his tail and informed Bulveye that he was equally exasperated with his brother. _Just mount the bitch already. She wants you to. You’re the leader of the pack, not some stripling that can smell the pheromones but hasn’t the strength to win a mate._

‘I--’ Leman cut himself off, unwilling to finish the sentence. Bulveye knew what it had been. _I wish._ That was a human thing to say, not a wolf one, and it made him hate himself for being trapped between two worlds without being purely one or the other or in some comfortable balance between them. He knew how his mind worked. He had chosen to be a man, a man of the Russ, of the Imperium, so he shouldn’t want to mate with an animal. He had chosen to be a human even if he smelled colour and had to pretend he was dictating to a skjald in his head to put his thought into words and he felt off-balance all the time on two legs and simply had a body that compensated so well he was physically incapable of clumsiness.

‘You can either have fleas in your pelt all week or you can get it out of your system properly. I’ll lie down for you. Let any man call me _ergi_ and I’ll prove him wrong on the battlefield or in the meadhall.’

‘Bulveye.’

‘You are my jarl. I offer your portion freely.’

Bulveye unlaced his tunic and tossed it over his head and placed a bowl of bear-grease salve on the bedside chest before joining Leman under the furs. They wrestled for a bit, companionably, as men did, but while Leman didn’t let him win, he wouldn’t pin him either. He could push him down and take what he wanted, but it would be wrong to do to a beloved friend what he would to shame a defeated foe.

Bulveye kissed him like he would have his late wife, though certainly Leman had more stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t begrudge it, would never begrudge giving his friend what he needed, and even if this were something he as a man was not supposed to want, there was no denying Leman was a generous and talented lover. ‘Let go. I can take it. Trust me.’

It wasn’t entirely true, no man except one of his brother primarchs could take the full force of Leman’s unleashed strength, but it would have to be enough. After a long pause, he could feel the moment Leman gave himself permission and he pounced on him with the force of a wave from a broken dam.

Much later, boneless and slipping into and out of the red dream more than mere sleep, Bulveye resolved that if he was going to be a woman for him, he’d make Leman carry him bridal-style until he could walk again. Leman snored against his back, peaceful and satisfied, even his prodigious stamina finally exhausted from copulating with him over and over as wolves did, the smell of oestrus still in the air. At least Leman loved cuddling at least as much as he did sex, because Bulveye wasn’t moving anytime soon.


	4. Alpha Legion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incapable of writing the Alpha Legion without some level of tongue-in-cheek meta humour.

There was no possible reason to think he’d ever be called upon to imitate what his primarchs were like it bed. Very unlikely. You never took chances, though, so he took very careful mental notes above and beyond eidetic recall.

Not that sex had to have a reason to justify having it. Certainly most seduction missions went to the non-Astartes operatives of the Legion, but they were their bread and butter and how they would laugh at a big, strong Astartes being romantic and acting like sex mattered. Among their own brothers and sisters of the XXth, the only rules were to keep your fun responsible, safe, and consensual.

All being the same was a trick they played on outsiders. A joke. Didn’t they see the contradiction between innovative, on-the-fly tactics and interchangeability? There was really something wrong with everyone else’s sense of humour.

So, it was just sex, and that was fine. It could have been anyone being shared but he happened to be at the centre of it, and that was fine. There was absolutely no comparing it being his primarchs to anyone else, and that was always going to be true no matter what games they play at in the Legion.

There was no reason not to get lost in it, to do anything but feel. Two warm bodies pressed against him. Breathing in stereo around him as two warm, wet mouths licked up the other’s kisses on his naked skin. Two pairs of hands trailed down his body.

He was trapped between them, both of them moving inside him, and it was too much. He was mesmerised by the sight of the heat and hunger as they kissed over his shoulder. Taking notes, in case, right.


	5. Thousand Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm halfway through _Ahriman: Exile_ at the moment, in case it's not obvious.

Ahriman didn’t mind the warband leader’s full weight on him or the rancid smell of human meat long caught between metal teeth on his breath or the mindless rutting against him--for dominance, for Slaanesh. He could be submissive. He could be a pliant bed-warmer, a meek kept-sorcerer. He could be Horkos or Vincent Law or Ponos Lethe or anyone else it behoved him to be today.

It wasn’t familiar to his old life, and that was good. The only things that could hurt him were the memories, and they never came to him when he whored out his body as well as his power.

The memories were more insidious. A slap of an ally’s hand on his shoulder, jealous that Ahriman had won their lord’s favour tonight when he had not, but not begrudging--but no, the face was pale with sunken bruises for eyes, not the beautiful, sculpted features of Hathor Maat. The knowing wolf-whistle as he answered a summons to his lord’s chambers was from a mutant with four arms in his power-armour, not Baleq Uthizaar, and it was guessing from observation, not reading the thoughts from his head.

In the past-- _shuddering with anticipation before he even gets there because he already knows exactly what’s going to happen and embarrassed at his loss of control for a moment. No need to fantasise in his imagination because he’s seen it and Magnus knows he already knows exactly what he’s going to do to him and that’s half the game. He could already feel the ghost of his primarch’s attention at the back of his mind like the weight of a gaze across a crowded room, watching the tension and impatience coil in him as he waits. As he counts down the hours, minutes until Magnus will turn the full force of his attention on him and stroke the most naked, intimate depths of his soul with his own and stimulate every nerve ending in his physical body without a laying a hand on him and make him come screaming again and again_ \--

He could be whoever he needed to be now, offer himself up without pride or shame and take it hard and deep and arch into the sweaty, clumsy touch, as long as he never had to remember.


	6. Luna Wolves

‘Whatever would I do without you, my friend?’

‘Manage.’

‘Really?’ Horus raised an eyebrow.

‘No, you’d immediately botch everything. You’d become an arrogant, reckless megalomaniac. I’d be surprised if you didn’t drop a match and burn down the Imperium. I can’t look away from you for a moment.’ And on and on until he had Horus cracking a smile and then laughing, a loud and energetic and unrestrained sound.

Hastur Sejanus laughed too, because it was too infectious to do otherwise.

‘Imitating Tarik now?’

‘I do try.’ _To be whatever you need. I love you too much to be able to stand the thought of failing at that._ ‘If you need me, if you trust me, delegate more.’

‘Ah, but I’ll do it better the first time.’

‘I’m sure re-doing all my mistakes will take less time for you than taking everything upon yourself, Lupercal.’

‘You don’t make mistakes.’ Horus was only slightly agitated, like his joke had gone a little too far, but always bursting with too much energy, he was quick to take to pacing.

‘Only the Emperor, beloved of all, can make a claim to perfection. I certainly cannot.’ Sejanus propped himself up on his hands and stretched. ‘My dear Horus, if you don’t get back over here or at least stay still, I’ll get a crick in my neck something fierce. I did say one thing that’s true and it’s my inability to tear my eyes from you.’

Who could? Charismatic, magnetic, Horus filled the room, more bright and vivid than anything around him. He looked at every person individually like he was counting on them and they shared their own private joke between them. How could you not be caught in his web? How could you not want to prove yourself worthy? How could you not love him?

Sejanus’s eyes followed the curve of his spine as he returned to the bed, the grace and majesty of his movements, curling up against him like a child as Horus pressed a kiss to his brow.

‘I do trust you. I only wish I could be everywhere, do everything, because I want to.’

‘That’s why you have me to look after you.’

‘Let me show you how grateful I am.’ Horus’s smile widened from a fond, loving crease at the corners of his mouth to a hot, hungry grin, and Sejanus laughed again, already breathless, until their lips met.


	7. Imperial Fists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overheard conversation on tumblr: “sigismund is my fetish” “just remember that dorn’s a masochist” “was that supposed to help out with my problem #i guess he’s dorn’s fetish too #bring on the whips and chains” “dorn desperately needs to get laid in a healthy way, instead of just using the pain glove and his hand (and probably feeling bad about it after)” Oh, and I apparently think Sigismund is Miki Sayaka sometimes.

Sigismund had always thought of himself as Champion more than Captain material. Not for him were the strategy of a battlefield or the leading of men, though sometimes these duties fell to him for a time. For all his Legion’s reputation for fortress-building and immovability, Sigismund mostly thought of himself as a man who hit things with a sword.

No doubt. No hesitation. Not for him the pride of a man who rebelled because he could not be ruled by another. He was aware some commanders were talented while others were incompetent, but when he knew he had the former, what more could he want for? It was simplicity itself. He was a sword in his father’s hand.

Or, he thought a little guiltily, the paladin of a saint, if such things were real. It was a bit too much like the stories he remembered from his childhood about gallant knights fighting for the favour and courtly love of a lady to be anything but embarrassing.

The point was, Sigismund wasn’t a thinker, wasn’t a planner. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t some Ultramarine here. He didn’t understand his primarch and he didn’t know how to.

Sigismund didn’t understand purity through pain because he found it boring. Pain was just a minor distraction of the body and to dwell on it made as little sense as having to think about every individual breath. Fine, he was a simple kind of man. Battle was his meditation. The enemies of humanity would die. By his hands they would be broken.

What he didn’t understand and was bothered by was why his lord felt the need to punish himself. There were some men who felt the need to atone every time they spit. Sigismund wasn’t about to suggest discipline should be lax or small sins should be forgiven as if they didn’t matter and didn’t lead down a slippery slope, but honestly he believed they were not penitent, just addicted to the feeling of self-righteousness from making a show of their virtue. There were tactical errors--factual mistakes, and then there were moral failings, and to constantly mistake the former for the latter weakened the severity of the true crime, he thought. Perhaps if one’s internal nature were so fundamentally different from the laws of behaviour Dorn set down, a man could go through life hating himself for wicked thoughts. Sigismund wasn’t really sure, because discipline came naturally to him and introspection didn’t and he was a very, very simple man.

Dorn’s sins, on the other hand, must be grave and deep. Sigismund just had no idea what they might be. He was loyal to the Emperor. He had done everything he was ordered to and done it correctly. Any man might wish reality were different considering the state of the Imperium outside, but that was beyond the control of even a demigod at this point and he had not been the one to commit any wrong. What fault could he have with himself?

Sigismund spread the ointment across Dorn’s naked skin, muscles still twitching with misfiring nerves stimulated by the pain glove. He wanted to ask, but couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure if this was an improvement or not over the old days. He couldn’t quite bring himself to trust a machine like he could his own hands. Dorn thought he was sparing him something distasteful somehow by automating it. Sigismund would do his duty.

‘I should not dirty you with the things I want you to do to me,’ he had said, and Sigismund had asked ‘What?’ because he _did not know_ , and every single thing Dorn had told him he had inflicted on his quivering flesh with his own body. He didn’t feel unclean, for his lord’s worries were not his nor was his penance. His purity was from obedience and from war.

Even if he had a machine to coax pain from his body now, it was Sigismund who drew him down from it, who sat with him until his black carapace implants could interface with armour again. His place was at his father’s side and he didn’t need to understand him, only to not fail him.


	8. Dark Angels

Lion could do whatever he wanted. Luther wasn’t his keeper. It wasn’t any of Luther’s business if Lion was taking more of an interest in new blood for their Order. They weren’t old men, hidebound and afraid of interlopers.

‘They’re very impressionable. Don’t take advantage,’ he chided lightly

‘Didn’t you always say ceremony was just a form a theatre made to produce awe and bind men together? Would you do away with all that now?’ asked Lion, as if that were actually a possibility.

‘No, no, just--’ How could he say it? Don’t be yourself? Lion didn’t need pageantry and regalia to make men love him, particularly these boys already nursing crushes on his legend before ever setting eyes on him. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he said with a smile.

Luther would curse himself later, alone and with too much time to think. He was no paragon in this and Lion took everything too literally when he didn’t understand it. If he could not be a virtuous man who could teach by example, then he should have said everything he meant when he had the chance.

 _You’re mine. Be mine alone._ The bites he left in Lion’s skin healed too quickly, disappeared completely even when some deep, dark part of him wanted everyone to see his mark on him.

His fault if Lion thought his sick possessiveness was normal. His fault if Lion inflicted such things on susceptible neophytes who had no defences against him. His fault Lion didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to do that. (Wasn’t supposed to look at anyone but Luther that way. His fault Lion had sent him away and he’d never, ever have him again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice there are ten Legions missing here. This is because I don't have a good mental image of the characters or didn't feel like it. I might write more someday, but I'm making no attempt to be a completionist.


	9. Blood Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Azkaellon is in-character. I more wanted to write the story than the character, but I needed a narrator.

The lights were too bright, like he was drunk, but he could hardly become intoxicated by mere wine. Regardless of any objection Azkaellon might make about plausibility, the colours were too bright, too orange and gold and red, like the dying rays of a sun on the horizon were highlighting everything, but the actually illumination didn’t support that. He could smell lilac and pomegranate as he was caught suspended in that perfect moment between not knowing what you wanted and the rush of awareness.

Maybe the Wolves had slipped him something that even his enhanced physiology could not identify or combat. It didn’t seem likely, but they certainly seemed boisterously drunk off by themselves. It would also explain why his hand was brushing up against his primarch’s across the table between them.

Azkaellon had to be blushing fiercely. It felt wrong to want to touch such splendour, but Sanguinius’s eyes held nothing but gentle understanding. His lord was the one who shifted so his palm covered the back of Azkaellon’s whole hand. Azkaellon nodded to the unspoken question there, as if there had been any doubt.

Sanguinius smiled. The expression was entirely unlike the righteous fury of battle, and in that moment he realised what he must be feeling. The remembrancers had a lot to say about the giddy foolishness that men in love were inclined to. He was unworthy, but the poets spoke of love as something that was noble to offer freely no matter how lowly one might be.

Sanguinius lifted his hand and used it to draw Azkaellon to his feet. He wondered what his brothers were thinking, their smiles as knowing as his primarch’s was kind, but the thoughts could hold very little of his attention. He knew they weren’t condemning him. They were blood of his blood; they understood this happiness as naturally as they did the joy of victory. He was barely aware of Sanguinius telling them there was no need to cut their merriments short just because he was retiring now. It seemed like something happening to someone else very far away. He only hoped he wasn’t shivering in eagerness, though he couldn’t remember why pride mattered.

Sanguinius kept his hand in his as he lead him back to his chambers. Safe in the shelter of his wings and arching into his gentle touches, he loved, worshiped, his lord with all his heart long into the night.


	10. Salamanders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke 9:27: But I tell you of a truth, there be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, ‘til they see the kingdom of God.

Numeon was a very old man now, even as Astartes counted such things. He did not feel old in body--his arms were still as strong as they’d ever been whether he wielded a forgehammer or warhammer, his eyes saw clearly. What aged his heart was that he was the last.

No other man still living in his Chapter or any other brother Chapter of the same geneline--Astartes or Dreadnought and certainly not mortal--had looked up the Primarch Vulkan with his own eyes. They told stories of his deeds, and Numeon was still around to make sure the stories were true, and stories of the future. For a long time Numeon had believed those stories as well. Had he not heard the promise himself from Vulkan’s own lips? Yet here he was, the last. Had Vulkan not said he could return before all who stood there had tasted death?

Numeon had seen many of his brothers die since that day and did not think his deathbed would be any better attended. But when you weren’t sure how to fix the future and it was only getting worse and worse, only a very bitter and cynical man would chastise the children for still having hopes and dreams. A fire might be reduced to embers, but that was a different matter entire from it going out. Let the young ones keep their fairytales of the return of a king in a time of great need. Many worlds believed such things.

Maybe there were still others, lost in Warpstorms and such things, but he doubted the technicality mattered. He suspected when Vulkan returned (he too had to believe it would happen), he would waltz back in in his own time whenever he was done with what he was doing now. ‘The greatest threat the Chapter had ever faced’ was something that got cried every other century or so, you realised when you got old enough.

Vulkan had always moved at his own pace and done as he pleased. Not cruelly, not without regard for other’s opinions and feelings, but as a man who knew his own mind. He listened and he thought, but then he acted decisively and often that meant sacrificing everyone’s short-term happiness for long-term goals. With tears in his eyes and rage burning brightly in his heart that this should be necessary, but he did. Numeon understood that.

Maybe Vulkan would return tomorrow. Maybe a hundred or a thousand years from now. No man could know the day or the hour. Maybe he would never return and was already dead, but Numeon liked to hope he would _know_ if that were so. He did not, and the uncertainty was the worst part.

So Numeon kept the trust of all old men: to remember and to tell others of what had been. Still, there were some memories he committed only to his personal papers in the most confidential of Chapter archives. He could not bear that anything be forgotten when he had the chance to commit it to posterity. When he died, no other man still living would remember anymore what he did.

Calloused hands and unyielding muscle, but he was always so careful, aware that other men were not as he was. His lips were always a little chapped, but his mouth wet as their tongues tangled together. The way he’d laugh, breathless, usually at himself. He was so warm (alive) as they moved against each other, the furnace of his soul beating just below his skin. How heavy he was draped across Numeon after they’d both finished, sweaty and sticky, and Numeon still often, in the confusion of dreams, asked him to stay like that when he moved to roll aside and let him breathe.

But whatever his dreams said back, what he had said then or a constructed fancy, he woke alone many years hence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were more of these I was considering writing, but I sure wasn't expecting it to be these two Legions, ones I have very little headcanon for or interest in. Apparently I wanted to write a couple hundred words about people being nice. Heck if I know.
> 
> Also, this may no longer be canon-compliant when _Vulkan Lives_ comes out, because I have no idea who from that Chapter is scheduled to survive the Heresy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ethereal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/862611) by [BolterSexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BolterSexual/pseuds/BolterSexual)




End file.
